Of Powders and Pastes
by Neemers
Summary: The things we do to fit into society...
1. First Time

Mystique quietly went upstairs and carefully, warily set out her purchase. It was long past time she learned how to use the products all of her kind used. As she opened the first package, her nose wrinkled at the strange scent, but she would not be deterred. If the rest of her kind could use such things, so could she. She wasn't scared - really.  
  
First the strange, blood-red stick. She'd faked its effects many times with her mutation. Surely she could learn to use the real thing. The waxy, odd odor nearly made her gag and back out of the whole deal, but she would not be denied. She could do this. She brought it ever closer to her lips, fighting the urge to seal her mouth shut and throw the offending stick across the room. She could do this.  
  
She carefully applied the stick to her lips, fighting the urge to shudder. Then, she carefully started smoothing it over her lips, still fighting back her gag reflex. Normally, when she was around various stenches, such as the annoying frog-boy, she would merely internally shape-shift to lose her sense of smell, but she was determined to do this like everyone else. She could do it. She could.  
  
SLAM!  
  
Mystique jumped, and the stick left a blood-red streak across her face. She considered going downstairs to show her ire. It had been a while since she'd used her powers to show her authority. She'd learned about just what scared the boys the most, from swamp monsters to vampires to Pietro's ongoing terror of Pikachu. After a moment's consideration, she decided to let them be. She was unsure if she could get herself to continue this operation if she stopped for even a moment.  
  
Mystique carefully took one of the cleansing cloths she'd bought for the end of this exercise to remove the offending red. True, it wasn't blood, but she almost wished it was so she couldn't have to deal with that awful scent. She was used to the metallic scent of blood, and it no longer bothered her. The cleansing cloth was nearly as bad.  
  
Next she removed a devise that looked like some kind of Medieval torture implement. The crescent-shaped clamp looked painful, but she knew she could do this. She had to get this bit done *now,* before she chickened out. She carefully raised it to eye level, and clasped it. Then she winced, released, and steadied herself to try again. That *hurt.* Why had her kind ever invented such an implement, when it could so easily take in folds of skin along with the proper hair? Slowly, with even more caution than before, she repeated the clamping operation. This time it went as planned. Relaxing slightly, she carefully worked on her other side, sighing with relief when she was done.  
  
Ok, now for the cream. She opened the first jar, sniffed, and ran to the waste basket, fighting dry heaves. She was supposed to apply *that* to her face? Slowly, trembling, she returned and prepared to apply the noxious concoction. She could do this, couldn't she? She could. She must. She wasn't so weak, but how she longed for a long, bloody battle so she could put this off.  
  
She carefully applied the rank concoction and, unable to fight off a grimace, rubbed it in. There. Done. That was the worst of it. Or at least she hoped it was.  
  
Now another cream, much like the former. She managed to steel herself and rub it into her cheeks, once again fighting her gag reflex. Surely the X- men would make trouble soon. She'd even settle for her boys getting into another fight that brought down half the house, just so she could get out of this.  
  
Next the powder for her eyes. Surprisingly, it didn't smell all that bad. A little like baby powder, reminding her of pleasanter times, before Magneto - that monster - had changed her precious little boy. Maybe she could do this after all. It was the matter of moments to apply the powder to her eyes, and not even all that bad.  
  
Now for the slender sticks, for above the eyes and the mouth. They were still rank, but not nearly as bad as what had come before. Now for the last thing. She opened the final bottle and withdrew a strange, spikey brush that smelled worse than anything before it. She could do this. She could. Just one more thing, and she was done.  
  
She carefully brought the brush up to her eyes an started applying it. Her hands were still shaking, and in a moment she slipped. The brush hit her eye and she dropped it, scrubbing furiously at her eyes to rid herself of the stinging sensation. Finally, the pain was gone, and she looked in the mirror again. She nearly cried. All her hard work was gone. She'd have to start all over. The tears and her hands had ruined it all.  
  
Mystique started trembling uncontrollable. She couldn't do this. She just couldn't. Bloodbaths and guns and angry mutants she could handle just fine but this - this was torture. She couldn't do it.  
  
Mystique bundled up her purchases and threw them in the trash. Tomorrow, she'd take them to the school with her and throw them in the incinerator. She didn't care how many females before her had managed to do this. She just couldn't do it. She was never going to try wearing makeup again.  
  
____________________________________________________________  
  
Opinions? 


	2. Old Hand

Special thanks to Eternity's voice, who gave me the plot-bunny for this chapter.  
  
Now on with the fic!  
  
Rogue sat down, preparing for the day ahead of her. She was dressed, clean, and her hair done, which only left one thing before she went downstairs - her face.  
  
She sat down in front of the dresser in the room she shared with Kitty. An incredible assortment of deep eye shadows, dark lipstick, and more lay before her. She always put her make-up on here, where others wouldn't bother her or make those annoying comments about 'enough make-up to sink a barge.'  
  
This was one of her favorite parts of the day. When she could almost pretend she was a normal girl like everyone else. After all, everyone put on their make-up alone. This was when she could think back, to before her mutation, before she had known she would be alone. She searched through her collection, starting to decide what she would wear that day.  
  
Contrary to what everyone thought, she hadn't been born a Goth. She had been one of the cheerful, friendly girls everyone wanted to know. She'd been the one people went to for a shoulder to cry on. She hadn't scared anyone back then. She could be a true southern belle, and she'd enjoyed her life just the way it was. She was everyone's friend, even if they'd just met her for the first time. She started applying her foundation, nice and thick.  
  
Then she'd had to move. At first fitting in again was hard, but it started to happen soon enough. Just when she thought she'd be fine, that she'd made new friends and could settle down to live the teenage life, they moved again. And again. She applied the little blush she used.  
  
That was when she'd learned that nothing was permanent. That was when she'd started to shut herself off. That was why she'd chosen the Goth look - to try to keep the preppy, friendly folk away. After all, if she didn't get close to anyone, it wouldn't hurt her when she had to leave again. She didn't want to have her life torn apart again. Now for her eyes. Deep, dark colors, to tell others to stay away.  
  
Just when she was starting to consider opening up again, it happened. She was just talking to Cody, nothing special, when he kisses her. And she discovered it. Her curse. Xavier called it her gift, but she knew better. It was a curse, one she had never wanted and would give almost anything to get rid of. She carefully checked her mask for any flaws.  
  
Now, she knew she wasn't moving on, but she kept the Goth look. Not because she particularly liked it, but because she knew what people would do. As long as she kept the sarcasm, the biting humor and the dark make-up, she knew she could make people wary of her. She could make a statement: stay away. Stay away, and stay safe. She didn't want to hurt anyone. She just wanted to make them think she would, so they would stay away, and stay safe. She deepened her eye colors a little more, to make sure she didn't look friendly, or open.  
  
She was nearly done with her mask. That was what her make-up was to her. A mask, so she could hide the pain. The hurt. So nobody would try to get close to comfort her. She knew what happened what they got close. This was what she told herself everyday. She had to stay tough, so they would stay safe, no matter how badly she wanted to get close. Done, but for her mouth today.  
  
Deep in her mind, another thought surfaced. The one she'd been trying to get rid of for so many years. [The shirt you wear to keep them safe is so thin. So very thin. Barely there at all. Maybe, if you put on your mask thick enough, you can touch. Can kiss.]  
  
Once again, she banished this thought, but her hand still reached for her thickest lipstick.  
  
_______________________________________________________  
  
Before I get any Goths out there ticked at me, I'm not saying everyone's like this. Just maybe Rogue, ok? So don't get ticked at me. Please? 


	3. Oh the Smell

Logan sniffed and tried to resist the urge to snarl. Rogue had done it again. How long would she get it, why he dragged her down to the Danger Room for early morning work-outs? It used to be all the girls, but slowly the girls started realizing what that disgusted turn to his nose was all about and left off. Rogue wasn't dense. Even Kitty understood and followed the unwritten code, but not Rogue.  
  
She'd even talked to Rahne, and learned that Rahne didn't wear make-up because the scent bothered her sense of smell, but she still didn't get it. How long would it be before the girl wised up and left that gunk out of his sessions?  
  
There was a bad side to having a heightened sense of smell. A person could smell everything, including those disgusting concoctions the girls put on their faces. He'd been around civilization long enough to reign in his gag reflexes, but they still all smelled like they'd just been skunked to him. The perfumes were just as bad. Maybe they smelled good to some people, but Logan's nose was good enough to tell him exactly what went into both them and the make-up.  
  
It wasn't always this bad. Original make-ups hadn't been this synthetic junk. They'd beet crushed plants and minerals. Those scents he was used to, and could handle just fine. He was around them all the time. It did always seem a little odd for women to smell like rocks and weeds, though.  
  
Some days, he was tempted to become a little more talkative just long enough to tell the girls exactly what went onto their faces. He smelled nasty chemicals and faintly, but just strong enough for his nose to detect, other things. He'd been around before all the synthetics and knew what the natural things smelled like. Some were nothing much, things like flowers and minerals, but others were basically ground-up dead animal parts. Maybe it would have the same effect as the 'what goes into hot dogs' lecture, and they'd leave that noxious stuff off their faces.  
  
Kitty was the only one who didn't bother him. She'd gotten on a nature kick before he met her and all her make-ups were straight herbal. He'd been in the wild long enough that even the more pungent plant smells didn't bother him, and hers were fine. Of course, he'd never tell the Half-pint that was part of the reason he avoided her less than the other girls.  
  
Now back to Rogue in the Danger Room. Normal exposure he'd gotten used to, but it was ten times worse when it was freshly applied, and became a hundred times worse if the person under that freshly applied make-up started sweating it off. How long would it be 'til she got it? Afternoons he could understand, but he didn't want make-up in his Danger Room in the morning!  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
Opinions? 


	4. Pretty

It was late at night on Wanda's second day home. Instead of thinking about everything that had been done to her, tonight she was thinking about what she could do now that she was out. When she was a little girl, she'd always wanted to play with make-up and play dress-up. That monster she had once called Daddy had told her she could start wearing make-up, jewelry, and the like, when she was sixteen. He had told her it wasn't for little girls.  
  
Well she was sixteen now, so she could finally have a little fun. But she'd been out of the world for so long that she didn't know what to do. That afternoon she'd gone to the store and gotten a little bit of almost everything, so she could be sure she'd have what she needed. She didn't like the bright, cutesly, little girl things, so she'd gotten the deep, lush colors. She'd been in a cell so long with only the bright 'show us what you feel' toys and the bare, drab walls, she'd almost forgotten about colors like the magnificent shades she'd found in the store. So she got them.  
  
She'd also seen something called a barber shop, and seen everyone inside having someone play with their hair. She halfway remembered having someone play with her hair, so she went in to have it done again, like a normal girl. Once there, a nice-looking woman had told her, "Deary, you'd look so beautiful with your hair a little shorter." Well, if making her hair a little shorter would make her beautiful, how good would she look with her hair a lot shorter? So she'd told the barber to make it really short.  
  
Then she'd seen a little girl getting earrings put in, so she did the same. The man who had put them in suggested little studs, but Wanda had seen some magnificent silver earrings shaped like, well kind of like an X with a long leg, and she insisted on those. It hurt, but they were so pretty she could stand the pain.  
  
She saw the television, and a little box with lots of buttons on it. What was it called again? Oh yes, a remote. She vaguely remembered using one when she was little to make the TV work. She started hitting buttons, and after a few errors, managed to turn it on. Now, the boys would have immediately saw that it was a commercial and flipped the channel, but Wanda just saw a beautiful woman with a bottle that looked like one of the things she'd bought on the screen. She rubbed it all through her hair, and was smiling the whole time. The TV said the stuff was called Pantene Pro-V. Well, the bottle she got like that wasn't called that, but it was the same kind of stuff. Right?  
  
Luckily, Wanda had managed to land herself on a girly channel, so it only took her about half an hour to get up-to-date on what went where, though she was still a little unsure of some things. She went upstairs to start working on her transformation.  
  
First for the bottle of gooey stuff, like the one the first lady had put in her hair. This kit thing had come with a little plastic cap with holes in it she didn't know what to do with. She read a little bit of the label. It was only supposed to go in the front, so she rubbed it in where her bangs used to be. It also said to wash it out after fifteen minutes, so she impatiently waited in the bathroom. The stuff smelled funny, and she didn't want that smell in her room.  
  
Once it was done, washed out, and somewhat dry from a towel, she went back to her room to do everything else. Her hand was a little unsteady, but slowly she managed to get everything done like she'd seen on TV, only she put it on thicker. If a little made her look good, what would a lot do?  
  
Halfway through, the short boy - Todd? came to see how she was doing. He wolf whistled at her. On the TV, when a man had done that, the woman had slammed a door in his face, so that must be the kind of thing she was supposed to do. Only she could do one better. She hex-bolted the short boy.  
  
Finally, she was done with her face. Deep, luscious colors peered back at her. Wasn't she beautiful? Now for her clothes. She'd bought some something the store owner had called a catsuit. She remembered liking cats when she was little, and maybe this was kind of the same thing? She pulled it out and saw how much it would cover. All the pretty girls on the TV had shown more skin that that, so she went down to the kitchen to get a knife to slice some new holes on it. There. That was much better.  
  
She went back upstairs, put in and the shoes she'd bought on, then started on jewelry. She'd bought a lot, so she decided to wear a lot. Wasn't she beautiful?  
  
____________________________________________________________  
  
Comments are always appreciated. 


	5. Mornings

Tabitha woke up and looked in the mirror. She looked just like what she was, worn out and thrown away. She'd been hurt and abused, neglected and denied. She tried smiling. It looked like a grimace.  
  
She felt so alone and scared. She creeped over to her closet and looked in vain for something that would cover her up. Tabitha didn't want to be stared at. She didn't want to have anyone notice her. If nobody noticed her, nobody would hurt her.  
  
Finally, she found an outfit that would offer some slight amount of modesty, if she pulled the pants up high and carefully arranged her shirt. Why had she decided to live in a houseful of wild teenage boys anyway? Boys terrified her! She just wanted to be cared for, but she knew that wasn't going to happen.  
  
Now for her hair. With slow, stumbling stride, Tabitha walked over to get her hairbrush. Even here, alone in her own room, she was terrified. Tabitha carefully chose a sedate style, once again trying not do draw attention. Why had she cut her hair that short anyway? When it was long she could use it to hide herself in.  
  
Now for the make-up. Tabitha eyed the garish colors in distaste. If she didn't know going bare-faced would get her attention she didn't want, she would have tried that. But she had to put on a little so nobody would single her out as a target. Tabitha went over to her vanity to put on her make-up.  
  
There. She was done. Or was she? Maybe just a little more...a little more...a little more...ok, a lot more. She started playing with her colors, making her face into a bright, shining masterpiece to tell everyone who she was. Finally she was done. Bright colors peered back at her.  
  
Ugh. What had she done to her hair? Instantly she reached for her mousse to give herself a flamboyant style, just like her. Then she pushed her pants further down, rearranged her shirt to show more, and walked out with the easy grace of a panther on the prowl. This Tabby-cat was ready to party. 


	6. Dreams

It had been two days since Hank had sprouted fur, but he still wasn't sure what to do with it. He'd figured out quickly that he needed to make his fur lay flat under his clothes for any kind or comfort, and had figure out a routine to smooth it down, but he knew nothing of fur maintenance and he was starting to get his fur tangled, no matter how often he tried to brush through it.  
  
So what should he do? Get online and check out dog grooming techniques? No, that wouldn't work. Dogs didn't have to deal with clothes.  
  
Shave it all off, and redo it every week or so to cut down on maintenance? He was seriously thinking about that, until he realized how bad razor burn in some of his more sensitive areas would hurt.  
  
There was only one thing to do. Wait until Kurt came home and get help. He'd just come in from the pool and was still just wearing his trunks. He'd been up all night in his lab, so he settled down on the couch to wait. He'd just rest his eyes for a few minutes...  
  
...Mmm, that felt good. Someone was playing with his fur. He vaguely heard some of the girls in the background, but what they were saying didn't really register.  
  
"...and Jenna taught me all about braids..."  
  
"...not braiding there..."  
  
"...sissy, I'll do..."  
  
This was the strangest dream, all about braids. He'd have to do some kind of psychoanalysis on it when he woke up. Right now he was on a roller coaster and the tracks were made out of braided hair. They were bouncing all over the place, but it was more fun than scary, and there was a tabby cat playing with the fur on his belly while a calico batted the fur on his leg. This was the strangest dream. There was also a wolf chewing on the fur around his neck, while a flame watched the show and a sparkler directed and hovered around his arm, moving it every once in a while. Everyone but the flame was giggling. This was the strangest dream. The tabby cat started going lower on his belly and the wolf bit its tail, so it quit there and moved on.  
  
The dream ended and Hank woke up a little later with the dream still fresh in his mind. He'd have to go get on the computer now and write it down before he forgot it. As he walked by people he heard them stifling snickers and idly wondered about it, but now wasn't the time to check. He had to get to his lab before he forgot his dream.  
  
Once in his lab, after he'd written down the dream, he checked online. There were tons of new messages on his forums he'd be here for a while...  
  
Five hours later, dinner was called and Hank went upstairs, to be greeted with open guffaws and cheers when he walked in. Hank mustered the most intelligent responce he could think of.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Check the mirror, Poindexter."  
  
He walked over to one of the decorative mirrors and his eyes widened in horror. While he was asleep someone had put almost all the fur on his head into cornrows. The shortest fur was left alone or put into cornrows that had spiky bits of fur hanging out. He looked down and noticed for the first time that they'd done his entire body. Horrified, he ran out of the room to undo the damage.  
  
There. It was all out. He looked again, and realized that everything the girls had said about braids making wet hair wavy was true. Now he really had to talk to Kurt. Hopefully he'd know what to do. ___________________________________________________________  
  
Opinions? 


	7. Playtime

Ororo rose with the first rays of dawn, getting ready for the new day. This was the time the children never saw her, when she was free to just be, instead of being the matron of the Institute. She groomed herself, watered her plants and spent some time among them. This was one of her favorite places, among such beauty, the life she had created.  
  
Next for another of her favorite times, the time she was free to be a child again, for the first time. She'd grown up on the streets of Cairo, living a hand-to-mouth existence, never really having a childhood. Now, though, she could be a little girl, at least for a few minutes every day.  
  
She came down from the attic. Once she was sure there were no students about, she merrily skipped back to her room. It wouldn't do for one who was once called a goddess to be caught playing like a child. Now she was back in her room and the door was shut. It was play-time.  
  
As a little girl she'd always wanted to play dress-up, and now she could. First for her clothes. Bright colors, the colors she'd always wanted to be able to wear as a child. A theif who wished to escape notice had to blend in, but she'd always loved bright, vibrant colors, colors she could now wear.  
  
It took her only moments to choose a bright, beautiful skirt and a blouse to go with it. Next she chose a gauzy scarf to tie back her hair and oversized, yet elegant, earrings. This was one of the combinations only she could wear and make it look good, and she knew it.  
  
Now for her make-up. She grinned widely as she began. She applied blush like a little kid, but she knew she could make it look good. Next for vibrant eyeshadow, mascara, and more. She grinned like a fool throughout the routine. She could finally play dress-up like all the other kids, and she wouldn't let anything spoil it for her, even if she was all grown up now.  
  
Next came bangle bracelets that chimed with every movement. She could play, she could make noise, she could be who she was. Ororo laughed and skipped around the room, then twirled in front of the mirror. It was her time to be her.  
  
She looked at the clock. She still had half an hour before anyone else would be up. She smiled again. When others were around and she wanted to make a picture, she painted. But she was alone now, and nobody would know. Time for her guilty little pleasure. She pulled out a pony coloring book and a box of crayons from under the dresser. She had wipes in her room to get rid of the crayon smell and perfume for after that.  
  
Ororo looked at the clock again. Ten minutes. She'd best get ready. She put the crayons away, used the wipe to remove the odor, and sprayed her perfume. Then she slipped on her shoes and pulled her face down into a more calm position. Then she quietly, elegantly slipped out her door, ready for any who needed her. She was the soul of the Institute once more. 


	8. Red

Charles woke up, flinching at the noise and reaching for the snooze button. It had been a very long day yesterday. Food fights were bad enough before mutant powers were thrown into the mix. After a few more seconds of trying to make the snooze button work, Charles realized what was wrong. The noise was from a heated argument on the other side of the Institute. This was one of the times he wished he wasn't a telepath. There was no way he was getting back to sleep now.  
  
He pulled himself out of bed and into the waiting wheelchair. Now for the bathroom routine. It was always so much shorter before his...disagreement with Cain. He always took care to show the students a polished image in an effort to encourage them to do the same. It was a good thing they couldn't see him in the mornings.  
  
There was a big, pinkish patterning over half his skull. Once again, he'd managed to pull one of the blankets up over his head in an effort to shut out the noises only he and Jean could hear, the pressed his head into the blanket so hard it left an interesting pattern imprinted on his skin in the morning.  
  
He knew how annoyed Scott was with his own mornings, but he'd take bed head and chin drool (1) over this any day. At least that could be cleaned up quickly. It would take a good fifteen minutes before the blanket marks faded enough for him to go out.  
  
He wished he could take a shower now, but past experience had taught him that any altercations between the students would start approximately three seconds after he lathered up. There were times when he halfway suspected that some of the students had heightened hearing along with their other mutations. This wouldn't be too bad for the others, since they could just throw on a robe and run down, but showering while sitting and getting into clothes without the use of his legs took longer.  
  
After rubbing his eyes free of sand, Xavier took another look in the mirror. It seems Scott wasn't the only one to suffer from chin drool. He washed his face and started shaving. It wouldn't do for the headmaster to come downstairs looking scruffy. He would have preferred to have all the teachers look clean-cut, but Logan would never change.  
  
Next Charles brushed his teeth, then checked the mirror again. His skin was still reddish, but it sounded like the argument that had woken him up was getting worse. He had to get out there soon. He wheeled into his room, got dressed, and returned to the bathroom. The mark was still there.  
  
There was only one thing he could do to get out there in time, yet still maintain his image. Charles pulled himself halfway out of his wheelchair and reached into the back of his medicine cabinet for that horrid jar. On the front of it, there was a smiling woman pushing a cream over her face. Charles sighed as he worked the foundation into his skull to cover the reddish skin, then wheeled out to deal with the situation.  
  
_______________________________________________________  
  
(1) reference to Sock Munkey's Scott morning fic, don't remember the name. 


	9. Playing the Part

Jean woke up to the buzzing of her alarm. Morning again. She hated mornings. Mornings meant getting up and putting on the mask. Being who everyone thought she was. At times she wondered how much of it was her, and how much of it was psychic feedback of the impressions others had of her. She longed to be her own person, but she knew that couldn't happen.  
  
Jean brushed her hair out, gathered her bathroom things, and headed for the door. she stalked out of the room. She hated mornings.  
  
Even when she wasn't really using her telepathy, it was always "on," meaning that she could easily know Rogue was coming around the corner well before Rogue saw Jean. Jean straightened her posture, put on a cheerful face, and graciously greeted Rogue. The moment Rogue was out of sight she slumped back into her previous posture.  
  
After a quick, hot shower and a chance to brush her teeth, Jean headed back to her room. She could fake it for short periods of time, but she really needed to put her costume on. If the Professor ever caught stray thoughts about that from her mind, he probably thought she was thinking about her uniform, but she wasn't.  
  
Back in her room, Jean dried her hair, then used a combination of fingers, brushes, TK, and hairspray to bind her mane into it characteristic extravagance. Next came the make-up and the trendy clothes she so despised.  
  
She loved some of the more romantic garments Rogue had, but she couldn't wear them. She was Jean Grey: captain of the soccer team, cheerleader, and the most popular girl in school. She had to wear the current styles. She knew Rogue despised her because Rogue thought Jean was just trying to be her friend because they had to live together, but that wasn't true. Rogue answered to nobody, made her own path. So often Jean had wanted to tell Rogue, "I want to be you!" but it would never happen, because Rogue would just disbelieve her and hate her all the more.  
  
Jean checked her appearance in the mirror one last time. Perfect. Now for one more day in her most common role: Jean Grey, the Perfect Girl. She only had about fifteen hours before she could go back to being just pain old Jeannie in her own room, right before bed, for just a few minutes.  
  
Jean remembered the last time she'd really been free to be just Jeannie, the day her powers manifested, the day her friend died. She shuddered, then focused on the facade once more. She was Jean Grey. She was the Perfect Girl. She was the one who never made mistakes. She was the one who would never let another friend die. She couldn't be Jeannie anymore. She couldn't let anyone else die.  
  
_________________________________________________________  
  
Opinions? 


	10. There's This Girl

Wazzup? Todd here. The guys call me Toad, but I really think of myself as Todd. Why'm I telling yo' dis? An who's that in the back wit' da keyboard? Ah, man. Not another author makin' me spill my guts. Heh. Least Fuzz-butt's got it worse than me. I tell yo', I'd hock a slimeball at her if I din't know that'd jus make things worse.  
  
Anyway, there's this new girl in school. She cute, but mebbe not outta my league, if I get myself cleaned up real good. Girl wants to be an entomologist, daz a bug scientist, for those o' yo' dat don' know junk like that. Yo' see, I ain't the idiot the guys think I am. I jus' know openin' yo' mouth at the wrong time gets a fist introdused to yo' face, iffin yo' follow what I'm sayin'. Back to dat girl. I figgur I'd be da ideal boy fer her, seein' as I could show her all the best places to catch the critters.  
  
So first thing I gotta do, I gotta get misself cleaned up. I'd take a shower, but after my mutatin', there's a lil' problem wit dat. Every time I get wet, the smell gets worse, an my skin absorbs so much water it takes a week for the stink to go. Well, my skin's kinda damp from my slime already, so mebbe if I jus' rub myself down wit' a towel real good...  
  
Ok, Author Lady, howabout a lil' privacy in here? I ain't stripping in front o' yo. Out. O-U-T. Das better. SLAM!  
  
Kay. I's done. How'bout you jus' stay out in the doorway, seein' how small the bathroom is? dat's real good.  
  
I wish I could get rid o' the smell, but it don' work dat way. Once Pietro tried to help me out, nicked about twenty pound o' some kind o' de- odorizin' junk an' threw it all over me, but that din't work so good. Y'see, my skin's like a real amphibian's, absorbs stuff real good. Got a real good buzz off o' Pietro's ministrations, but it sure weren't worth the headache the next day. Felt like Fred was tap-dancin' on my skull.  
  
Now fo' brushin' my teeth. Can yo' keep a lil' secret? I don' got no toothbrush. I had one, but pushin' it around in my mouth wit' my slime din't give it so good o' a life expectancy. M'slime's so sticky it pulled half the bristles out by the end o' the week. An' wit' my mutation givin' me softer skin in my mouth, it tore up my gums pretty bad, too. So now I jus' gotta work wit' dis little hunk o' rag. It's better than nothin', though.  
  
An den there's my hair. M'comb disappeared somewhere, and if I borrow one, the guys'll kill me. M'slime tends to cling to jus' about everyting. Well, I's pretty good at finger combin'. Almost looks like it's bushed, don' it?  
  
dNow for m'clothes. Believe it or not, I actually make a habit o' keepin' a clean set in reserve. Got it hid real good so Pietro can't mess it up when he gets ticked. Well, there ya have it. My best shot. Clean clothes, kinda- clean me, and da best groomin' I can give m'self.  
  
I don' have a chance, do I?  
  
__________________________________________________________  
  
Opinions? 


	11. Challenge

My life is a study in frustration. Everyone thinks I don't pay attention to anything, don't notice, but I do. They're just moving too slow! Do you know what it is to be able to race up to the front of the class, doodle all over her face, and be back in my seat before she can turn around? There's no challenge anymore. That's why I tried taking on Daniels as a rival. I knew about his mutation and thought I might finally have a chance of a serious challenge in my life. But it didn't work. It never works. They're all too slow.  
  
Finally, I gave up on finding that kind of challenge. There was nobody that could keep up. Sure, I still hang with the guys, but its like watching the monkeys at the zoo. I'm the kid throwing the peanuts, they're the ones on display. They're, they'rekindamyfriends, but they can't keep up. It feels like they take hours to get one sentence out. They say I talk too fast, but they have no idea. No idea how much I slow down for them.  
  
You know all that junk the teachers always give you about challenging yourself, exceeding your own limitations? I've started doing that, because that's all that's open to me. The other routes are tapped out. You know the real reason I tried to help Daddy-dearest? I knew about his mutant experiments and was hoping I could convince him to make another speedster. Someone who could keep up, stave off the boredom.  
  
That's actually why I got my ear pierced, for something to do. I wanted to see if I could stay in place while something was hurting me. Sounds like it would all be over in an instant, doesn't it. I don't know how fast it was for you. but I know how slow it was for me. I counted twenty-three heartbeats while the stud was going through my ear. I never even moved, but self-mutilation isn't my style. I proved I could take the pain, so I needed something new.  
  
I haven't gotten to Daddy-dearest yet, even tried studying hypnosis and his lab notes, but it didn't work. Leading me to where I am now. The attempt to bring my already perfect looks up to the next level. I used to be one of the guys that laughed at anyone who took time on their looks, but now I'm one of them. Because time is all I have. I've tried every gel, every shampoo on the market, but it got old after a while. That's why I'm doing what I am now.  
  
First for the contacts. I've got twenty-twenty vision, but blue looks so much better on me than brown. Not even the guys know, and I intend to keep it that way. First time one of them were short-up on cash they'd sell that tibit to Daniels.  
  
Next the hair. Everyone thinks it must take me forever to style it the way I do, but it's actually pretty fast. All I have to do is put the gel in my bangs and take a few laps around the block at super-speed. That pushes them into place, dries them, and leaves me with a look nobody else can come anywhere close to copying. Especially since nobody else can get my hair down right. It's naturally white, but I'm the one that added in those little silver-white highlights.  
  
I've got the make-up out in front of me. Don't get me wrong. This time I'm not trying everything on the market. I know what people say about guys who wear make-up, so I'[m opting for the natural look. Foundation, blush, natural tones of eyeshadow, all applied with a feather-light hand. I do like getting close to the girls, and it wouldn't do to have anything thick enough to smudge.  
  
Perfection has arrived. I've been doing this for nearly a year and have yet to find any way to improve it. So what am I supposed to do now? Where's the next challenge?  
  
____________________________________________________________  
  
Opinions? Anyone? Any and all review would be greatly appreciated, and I do take requests on who comes next sometimes. 


	12. Hidden Effect

Everyone thought his mutation wasn't physical, but they were wrong. Were they ever wrong. Scott sighed silently to himself as he tucked a little something extra in with his towel again. Every day. Every day he had to do this, and even if mutants were ever publicly accepted, he'd have to continue to do this, because this particular mutation looked so stupid. He'd been laughed at before, and worse, when he was different. When he was the one with no parents. When he was 'blind' before he'd gotten his shades, when he'd always been the kid that 'ran into doors' and 'fell down the stairs.' He wouldn't go through that again.  
  
Whenever Scott had the shower, everyone was careful not to surprise him and walk in on him. When Scott was in the shower the shades were off so he could wash everywhere. Everybody knew that not startling him was a very good idea, especially after that incident with a mistimed 'port and a vaporized wall. It had been an accident, but Scott didn't feel particularly guilty about it. It meant nobody would stumble across him in the shower. Nobody would know his secret.  
  
Scott turned on the faucet, let it warm, and then stepped under the warm spray, letting it wash off yesterday's dirt and his attempts to hide his little secret. The towel hung just outside the stall, but the packet he'd hidden within came into the stall with him. Normal people waited until they were out of the stall, dry and dressed before they used such things, but Scott could take no chances. Questions would be asked if anyone saw it, and if anyone saw him before he was finished with it, everyone would know. He would not be laughed at again. He was the leader of the X-Men. He had to be perfect.  
  
Soon enough he was clean and turned off the shower. He pulled in the towel and dried his head and hands, then pulled out the packet. Everything else could wait. He had to get this over with before anyone saw him.  
  
The fierce optic blasts that sent his enemies running had a greater price than the shades he was forced to wear. The shades themselves didn't fully absorb the blasts, but directed nearly half of the force back at his skin. Everyone thought he was fully immune to the effects of his own blasts, but that wasn't quite true. The blasts affected him the same way the sun affected everyone else, giving him a deep tan over his eyes where the blasts were most concentrated that tapered off to a finer tan over the rest of his face. He was still amazed that he'd noticed his 'little problem' before anyone else, but even with the new shades obscuring his vision somewhat, he knew his face better than anyone else. He was just glad that skin tones were neutral enough for him to get the necessary cover-up without help.  
  
Half the Institute ragged him about going outside to go running every day, even when it was raining. snowing, or even hailing once, but he had to. He refused to go to a tanning salon, and this was the only other thing that let him cover up enough for the little packet to finish the job.  
  
If he didn't go running, he wouldn't get any tan on the rest of his body. If he didn't have that tan, the marks on his face from the optic blasts would become patently obvious, and he wouldn't allow that. As long as he went running, as long as he had some kind of tan, nobody noticed how his face was a slightly darker shade that everything else, but that made sense after all. He never wore hats, and his face was the only thing that was always uncovered in every kind of weather. It made perfect sense to anyone who took the time to think about it that his face would be more tanned. They didn't have to know that it was because of his eyes.  
  
All that was all well and good, but it still didn't cover up the darkest skin, the skin around his eyes. Some of it peeked out from behind his glasses, though they deflected enough of the blasts straight back to give him raccoon eyes. He took out the packet and smoothed it over most of the top half of his face, gradually smoothing it over to match his natural skin tones without looking in the mirror. After all, he couldn't do that without destroying the mirror.  
  
After a few moments Scott finished with the foundation and wiped his hands on his washcloth, which he immediately folded to hide the cream's marks, then slipped the foundation packet inside the washcloth to hide it as well. He could wash the cloth out later. Then he took the time to towel the rest of his body dry and put on his shades. Scott relaxed slightly. The difficult part was over. The rest of his morning routine was the same as everyone else's, with one minor exception.  
  
Scott got dressed, groomed himself, and then went to wake up most of the Institute. It wouldn't do to have anyone think that he was trying to hide anything in the mornings, and none would ever suspect that so long as he routinely got in their faces every morning. After all, someone had to wake the Institute up on the days where Kurt decided not to give one of his infamous wake-up calls.  
  
_________________________________________________________  
  
Still clueless on what to do for Fred, Lance, Bobby, Evan, Kurt, Rahne, Kitty, Sam, Amara, Jubes, Ray, Roberto...anyone I'm forgetting?  
  
Any and all feedback and/or suggestions would be greatly appreciated. 


	13. Spike Trouble

Evan winced as his alarm went off. It was still dark, and he groaned as he read the time. 1:00 in the morning. He hated this, but this was the only time he could do what needed to be done without anyone asking questions.  
  
Evan got out of bed and dug down into his personal safe - a box under a month's worth of post-Danger Room socks. Nobody, not even Logan, would dare even try to see what he had hidden away. He got out the bulky, oversized plastic kit beneath and stumbled to the kitchen, which he raided for some moo juice and heated a tub within the kit for a few moments in the microwave.  
  
Next he trod to the bathroom at the far end of the mansion, the one so far off that the only time it was ever used was when Kurt 'ported to it. Here, he would be safe from discovery.  
  
After carefully setting out the cloth strips and getting out the spatula, Evan set down to work. Shedding spikes was no problem, but his spikes grew out of the same channels as his hair. That meant that every time he pulled his spikes back in, he risked ingrown hair follicles. This wouldn't be all that bad, except for the fact that splinters off his spiked caught in the inflamed area, eventually making things so bad that he had to cut it open with his pocketknife and spray disinfectant over the entire area. He'd covered his little problem by explaining away his injuries as boarding accidents, but he was still smart enough to take precautions.  
  
Best to do the hardest bits now, before he started falling asleep again. He dipped the spatula in the jar, smeared the contents over the back of his head where the shaved bits of his hairdo were, then applied the strips.  
  
RRRRIP  
  
Man, he wished he could think of a less painful way to get rid of hair, and more importantly, hair follicles, in unwanted places than waxing. He didn't even want to imagine what a bikini wax would feel like. He rarely let the spikes at the back of his head out, only because he was worried about an infection if he had to draw them back in. He couldn't exactly explain that away as a boarding accident.  
  
He'd always wanted a more sedate hairstyle, but naturally blond hair with black skin and his need to keep his spike channels clear nixed that plan. It was either this or shaving his whole head, and Evan didn't want to come across as the Professor's mini-me.  
  
One by one, Evan systematically waxed every part of his body where the spike channels appeared, then washed off the wax bits that insisted on clinging to his skin. Finally, he was done and could crawl back to bed. He squirmed down into the now-cold sheets, and quietly groaned to himself as he realized that he'd have to do all this again in another two weeks.  
  
__________________________________________________________  
  
Good? Bad? Please say something. 


	14. Under the Blade

Logan heard the kids talking about just how many trains had to have run into his face to make it look the way it did and resisted the urge to snarl. He was careful to never let anyone know just how much of a sore subject his face was with him. He'd been fine with it, until some of Chuck's mind probes had started unlocking memories of what had been.  
  
Once, Logan had been the most handsome man in town. All the ladies swooned over him, and the young dappers who spent time on clothes and careful grooming looked on with jealousy. Logan could always throw on any old thing and look better than them, and he knew it. He'd learned to charm the ladies off thier feet to the point where he'd had several propose to him, even in those distant times where it was always the man who initiated that event. He'd also had a few more forward offers, though he'd always carefully refused. He would not be one to turn the ladies from the proper path.  
  
He'd experimented to see just what he could get away with. He'd chosen an odd, unique hairstyle in an attempt to see just how that would change things. To his surprise, it just attracted more followers. A few of the other men tried to imitate him, but the look was utterly laughable on them.  
  
When his mutation had come, it had taken him awhile to realize that he'd stopped aging. Once he did, he left town to make a new home for himself. He had no intention of sticking around until he was accused of sorcery. He'd taken to the road, spending a few years in one town after another, and always managed to become the center of attention around the women.  
  
After about fifty year's time, this started changing. He had been a handsome man, but he'd long since learned that cartilage in the nose and ears never stopped growing. After another ten years, when he realized just what a problem this would be if he was effectively immortal, Logan chose to do something about it. He'd seen how the wounds he received healed together nearly instantly if he held the edges together and decided to try a more precise operation. Long years on the frontier had taught him how to ignore pain, and he'd have to do that if he were to pull this off.  
  
Logan carefully took his skinning knife and applied it to his own face, slicing away much of the cartilage from his nose and ears. Once each cut was made, he carefully held the edges against each other until they healed together. He had to make the cuts and the edges even so they looked and healed right. It took time, but he did manage to finish the job. At the end of the time, blood and tears had mixed.  
  
He went to wash his face clean, then peered into the water. He looked as he had nearly over half a century ago. He wondered if things would be as they once were, and sure enough, all the ladies flocked to him in the next town.  
  
Unfortunately, time and repeated operations had changed the process. With time he started using metal claws instead of a knife, but it was the same basic idea. As Logan had to repeat the operation every so many years, the original lines were lost, and he gradually acquired the boxer's nose he now had. His following had gradually left, until he was where he was now: the man with a face who looked like it had been hit by a train, stuck babysitting the kids. ____________________________________________________________________________ _______  
  
Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and please keep it coming. When I don't get reviews, I tend to assume nobody cares and quit writing. All tips have been helpful, and some of them will be seen in upcoming chapters. Unfortunately, it's probably be a while before I update. I'm sick, and I've got midterms to study for. At least I'm done with Evolution for now. 


	15. Fur

Kurt closed the door and quietly set down his purchase. He'd been at the nearest bulk store to get himself enough chips to last for more than a few days when he'd seen it. He'd felt himself strangely drawn by the display, though he normally avoided that area of the store like the plague. He'd slowly wandered into the pet section to come face to face with the display for animal colorants. After a moment's consideration, Kurt actually decided he'd rather get them than food. The chips he could get any time. This might not come back around. Past attempts had taught him that products made for human hair didn't work on his fur.  
  
He'd gotten a little bit of almost everything, from straight dyes to those designed to lighten or darken the fur a tone to little pencils to make spots and stripes stand out better and/or create new ones. He was ready.  
  
After a little consideration, Kurt decided that he wouldn't use any of these products first. First, he's use what he'd purchased months ago, for some time in the distant future when he might want to change his look. For now, though, he grabbed his older purchase, one of the fur darkening items, and a change of clothes. Then he 'ported down to the bathroom. He'd been careful not to 'port into the bathroom ever since the incident with Amara in the shower sent him to the infirmary.  
  
Kurt carefully searched through the attachments for his earlier purchase until he found what he was looking for: a razor attachment that would give his somewhat shorter fur, but still a fairly thick fur coat. Losing all his fur would feel like walking around naked.  
  
Kurt plugged in the razor, grabbed it and the colorant, and slipped inside the shower stall. He carefully buzzed himself shorter in all areas that anyone might see, using his tail to handle the razor occasionally. He chose to skip a few more private bits for comfort's sake. There were just some places that no male in their right mind would want to risk razor-burn. Then he carefully blew fur off the razor and slipped it outside the shower. He had no intentions of electrocuting himself.  
  
Kurt used his time in the shower both to wash away all the annoying bits of lost fur and to darken his remaining fur. Finally, he was out, and he could already find a practical reason for keeping his new look. It took him half the time to blow-dry the shorter fur. In moments he was dressed and 'ported up to his room, intent on studying his new look somewhere where other students wouldn't pound on the door and scream for him to come out.  
  
Kurt carefully studied his look in the mirror. His now shorter, midnight- blue made him look older, more distinguished. He liked the older look, but he didn't want to look distinguished. He needed something to brighten him up. He carefully searched through the semi-permanent fur pencils that were used to create new stripes and spots. That wasn't what he wanted, but right now it was the only option he could think of. He stopped when he saw a metallic gold pencil that had somehow made it into the lot of tamer colors. After thinking for a few moments, Kurt smiled, and started planning the masterpiece he would create on his own body.  
  
Kurt scrawled angelic symbols into his fur alongside Halbespferd and Romani writing. He looked in the mirror for a few minutes, then joined them all together by meaningless swirls and symbols. In moments he was covered head to foot. Now all he needed to do was find the proper audience for his new look. He heard people outside, enjoying the pool. Perfect. He slipped on his trunks, opened the window, and leaped outside. A moment's graceful ramble through the treetops brought him to the pool area, where he dropped into the middle of the students.  
  
"Nice, ja?" he queried, then looked at the faces of his teammates. Looks ranged from shock to uncomprehending to appreciative from some of the girls. This where he was meant to be: the center of attention, so long he wasn't also in the center of a bonfire.  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
Review? Please? 


	16. Shaving

Rahne sat, sweated, and watched those around her. She had to wear pants because whe couldn't shave her legs. If she shaved, she'd have naked legs as a wolf, too. Of course, with how much of her wolfishness showed through on her human side, she couldn't walk around in shorts, either. This left her where she was now. Sitting in the shade, sweating, and whishing that Jean hadn't brough Taryn over. As long as a norm was here, she couldn't wolf out.  
  
She'd tried other options, but they'd all dried up one by one. She couldn't go in the swimming pool because that would mean exposing her hairy legs in a swimming suit and because the smell of clorine drove her away. She couldn't start a water balloon fight because sooner or later somebody would hit Jamie when Taryn was looking. She couldn't go inside because Kitty was inside and she was cooking; Rahne had no intentions of trying any of Kitty's cooking, especially after Dr. McCoy had managed to sell her muffin recipe as a concrete substitute.  
  
So here she was: sitting, sweating, and wishing she were anywhere but here. The a though finally occurred to her. Jean was the only one who liked Taryn. She could sit, sweat, and plan how she'd make sure Taryn never came to the Institute again. Kurt and Bobby had to be around here somewhere...  
  
____________________________________________________________  
  
Short, I know, but my Rahne muse ran away. 


	17. Rocks

Kitty finally had her package from the mail-order geology club she subscribed to. She took it up to her room, opened it, then looked around carefully to make sure nobody was around. The coast was clear.  
  
Kitty pulled out the mortar and pestle from under her bed, set a mineral in it, and set to work grinding it down. After nearly half an hour of hard labor, she'd reduced it to dust. Next she mixed in a little aloe vera to turn it into paste, then poured it into a little tub she kept for the purpose.  
  
Kitty carefully wiped off the mortar and pestle, placed a new rock within the mortar, and set to work again. She sighed, but kept working steadily. Who knew when Rogue would be out of the room all day again? She'd just die if anyone ever found out what she was doing. The trace amounts of chemicals in commercial make-ups bothered her so much that she couldn't wear them, and even the so-called organic formulas were only good for a night out before she had to scrub them off or deal with a scarlet rash the next morning. She refused to go bare-faced, so she had to spend hours creating her own make-up.  
  
It had taken her forever to figure out a mascara recipe that worked, until the one day that she got so fed up she mixed aloe vera with fireplace charcoal. It didn't look quite as good as the store-bought stuff, but she could wear it all day.  
  
Experiments with perfume had taught her that she needed an alcohol base for any perfume. Unfortunately, she was too young to buy her own alcohol and when she tried nicking some out of her parent's stock, she'd discovered that the processing it went through gave her the same problems she had with store-bought perfumes. She'd solved this problem when she found out that the black sheep of the family, Uncle Eddie, made his own grain alcohol. She'd managed to fill her water bottle with it when his back was turned and scented part of it with chopped-up rose petals from the backyard when she got home. It took her a few tries to get it right, but eventually she figured it out. Since then she had expanded her skills and stock of scents.  
  
Unfortunately, it had been nearly a year since she'd seen Uncle Eddie and she's run out of alcohol nearly a month ago. That meant she was back to spritzing a handkerchief and hiding it under her shirt. (1)  
  
Kitty sighed to herself, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and continued grinding down the rock. Nobody had any idea just how much work went into creating her peppy valley-girl exterior. Some days she just wanted to go bare-faced, be declared a geek, and be done with it.  
  
_______________________________________________________  
  
Sidefling to one of 'Nutter's fics, don't remember the name.  
  
Review? Please?  
  
Niteflite, Scrawler, Eternity's Voice, you've all given me such helpful reviews all the way through that I wanted to do something for you. If any of you want, I'll write you each a one-shot Evo fic of your choice, so long as it's not slash or smut. E-mail me with what you want. 


	18. Servants

Jamie yawned as he woke up and looked at his clock. Great. He'd just woken up and he only had fifteen minutes before he had to be ready and out the door. Plenty of time.  
  
Ever since Jamie had learned to tell the original from the dupes, his life had been greatly simplified. The first thing he did was stand on his bed, then take a swan-dive off of it. He used the impact to help himself wake up and to create six new dupes. It had taken him a while to figure out something that always gave him the right amount of force. For once, he didn't need to tell his dupes what to do. This had become routine ever since he'd learned how to figure out who the original was.  
  
The three dupes closest to the door went down to fix breakfast for him. He was never really hungry in the mornings, but he knew he'd regret it before lunchtime if he didn't get some breakfast now. It was probably a good thing that he wasn't hungry now, because that meant the dupes didn't raid the kitchen for themselves when he did this.  
  
Jamie yawned and started slipping out of his pajamas while the dupe that had been closest to the middle helped him. The two that had been closest to his dresser headed over there to pick out the clothes he'd wear that day. He never understood why his dupes were more awake than him in the mornings. By the time he'd stripped the clothes-dupes had agreed on what he should wear and brought their choice over to him. He always made sure he looked to see what they were putting him in, since they did have a good sense for practical jokes on occasion, usually on a day after he'd been hanging around Bobby. He also checked to make sure they'd put the game tokens in his pocket. There'd be trouble if he didn't have those.  
  
Satisfied that they had given him a good choice, Jamie extended his arms while the dupes helped him into his clothes. He went through some minor motions to help them, but most of it was their job. When he'd first thought this up, he'd done this, then re-joined with his dupes often enough for them to know exactly what to do. He still did re-join on occasion, since he didn't want to get out of practice.  
  
Once he was dressed the dupe that had helped him undress started playing his game-boy while the clothes-dupes accompanied him to the bathroom. They waited outside for a moment while he 'took care of business.' It was entirely to strange to pee in front of himself. Once he had washed his hands, he let them in. The first one in grabbed the washcloth while the second one in grabbed his hairbrush. The first one washed his face while the second one brushed his hair. the hair-dupe always finished first, so it was the one assigned to get out his toothbrush for him, put toothpaste on it, and set the toothbrush and a cup of water by the side of the sink for him. Once the washer-dupe was done, he went to brush his teeth. Past experience had taught him that it was best to do this himself. While he was brushing his teeth both of his dupes headed down to the living room to watch TV until they faded away.  
  
Jamie made his way to the front door, and as expected, he found the food- dupes waiting for him. At first, he'd had some trouble getting them to make him something good consistently, but he'd come up with a solution. He checked the bag, and found that it contained a normal peanut-butter and jelly sandwich (he pulled it apart, just in case), juice, a pickle, chips, and a cookie. He reached into his pocket and handed the dupes the game tokens that the clothes-dupes had put in his pocket for him. The other dupes knew not to let the food-dupes watch TV or play with any of his stuff if they didn't have the tokens, because that meant they'd tried to put hot sauce in his sandwich again.  
  
Jamie headed out the door with the others, struggling not to smile as Amara berated the others for not even knowing of, much less experiencing, a proper morning routine, complete with servants to help them prepare for the day. Jamie knew his dupes weren't exactly servants, but they were more than willing to help him for a few minutes before they got to laze around and play until they faded out of existence. 


	19. Feathers

Warren came in from his morning flight, relaxed and ready to get ready for the day. He was quite happy until he saw the brace he used to hide his wings. Of course, it also tended to make them cramp up abominably and made any irritations nigh impossible to scratch. After a moment's consideration, he kicked it and continued on his way. There were times when he wondered if his father had made the brace out of titanium as a show of wealth or to make sure it could survive Warren's temper.  
  
Warren continued on his way, unfurling his wings for one great flap that carried him over the living room area instead of navigating the furniture. He smiled a little to himself, remembering the last time he'd done that in front of his father. He'd never known his father's face could turn that shade of purple, nor that it was possible to make him so upset he'd sputter incomprehensibly. Ever since then, that had been one of the chief reasons he never covered his wings when only in the presence of family.  
  
Warren made his way to the washing room, drawing his wings inward to fit through the doorway without really thinking about it. When he'd first gotten his wings, he'd ran into so many doorways at such great speeds that his father had replaced them all for fear someone would ask what had created the dents. Warren was just glad that the upper parts of his wings were so sturdy that he felt no pain from his accidents. At times his father made him so angry that he was tempted to have a few more 'accidents.'  
  
Slipping inside the shower stall, Warren frowned slightly. Anyone else would have found the stall incredibly spacious, since most men would be able to stretch out both arms without touching the sides, but it was rather cramped for his wings. At least there was room enough to move about in if he was careful. Warren stepped under the faucet and turned it on, not bothering to let it heat up since he never took hot showers anyway. Hot water tended to make his feathers dry strangely, and after about a month of cold showers he'd found that the temperature no longer bothered him.  
  
Warren lathered up, washing his body and shampooing, but he was careful to keep the soap away from his wings. It tended to dry them out. After rinshing and running enough water off his wings to get the outsides clean, Warren knelt down and raised his wings so he could get the spray to go between his feathers and clean the placed he couldn't reach himself. He closed his eyes and moaned his pleasure. This was his his third favorite part of his morning rountine, the first obviously being his morning flight. After staying under the cold, relaxing spray for longer than was strictly necessary, Warren finally rose, turned off the spray, and went about the rest of his business.  
  
Things such as brushing his teeth and hair were no different from what anyone else would do, unless one counted how particular he was about it. He was the heir of a multi-million dollar company and knew he would be expected to look the part. If anyone managed to take a picture of him with something in his teeth it might turn up in tomorrow's tabloids with a suitably hokey title. It was somewhat simpler for him than most, since he had enough to buy several lifetimes' supplies of the top personal care products on the market. He'd mentioned this to a friend once, who had decided to make sure that Warren had several unusual products along that line. He'd been bought various make-up supplies, a bikini-waxing kit, three wigs, and a kit containing twenty kinds of tweezers. He'd laughed at the time and planned on who would be the next victim to recieve the gifts, but he had found a use for the tweezers and make-up foundation.  
  
Sometimes small pinfeathers started growing in at his ankles and wrists and had to be removed. Carefully searching, Warren found one still under the skin on his left wrist that was still too small to be seen unless one knew what he was looking for. It was best to get rid of it now, before it was big enough to hurt more. He removed one of the medium, sharply pointed tweezers and used the point to burrow under his skin to pull the pinfeather out. It only took a moment and a wad of toilet paper on his wrist to stem the bloodflow. Even when they were this small his feathers all had a vein running down the middle. Once the blood had stopped flowing he'd use a dab of foundation to cover the irritation.  
  
Warren continued on to the kitchen. This was his second favorite part of the morning. He filled a bowl with olive oil, spread his wings, and started oiling them. Keeping them properly oiled meant that water ran off them so he didn't have to dry them and kept them in tip-top condition for flying. The gentle pulling on his feathers from this routine always lulled him half to sleep, and he smiled gently as he worked. At times he imagined how it would feel if his wife did this if he ever got married. All too soon he was done and had to clean up the evidence. It wouldn't do to leave anything odd lying about for the next reporter who broke into his apartment.  
  
Next he grabbed his coat and went to put It on. He was still struggling with whether or not he should name his brace The Rack, after the medieval torture device. Somehow, it seemed too kind a name. He was sure he could come up with something better eventually, so for now it was merely It. He struggled into the brace, slung his coat on, and went out to start his day.  
  
_________________________________________________________  
  
Opinions? 


	20. In the Woods

Contrary to popular opinion among the Acolytes, Sabretooth did actually do something to take care of his appearance. He'd spent the past ten minutes in the river, swimming to rid himself of sweat, dirt, and blood from past encounters. He'd also scared a troop of boy scouts half to death when they'd come across him swimming in the nude. They'd gotten off lucky. Sabretooth was having one of his more laid-back days and contented himself with making them run off screaming. He'd only scratched one and thrown another into a tree.  
  
Sabretooth went back to where he'd left his clothes. After kicking the ragged remains that had been his uniform before the last battle, Sabretooth came to the conclusion that not even the coat was salvageable. After centuries with his mutation and blood-lust, he knew what could be brought back. Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't give anyone who found out he could sew a very painful lesson about respecting other's privacy.  
  
Well, at least the current base was way out in the woods. He could walk there without having anyone bug him for not caring about such civilized things as covering his own rear. Of course, when it came to the saying rather than the literal, he was very good at doing exactly that. Sabretooth idly stretched. That last fight had really helped him take care of some of his problems. He was probably the only one who could induce a fight for aesthetic reasons.  
  
After years of living in the wild, Creed found brushes and haircuts to be an incredibly strange idea, so he refused to use them. Of course, that meant that his fur got matted up over the course of time. It hadn't taken him long enough to figure out an alternative to cutting or brushing out the mats. All he had to do was get in a knife fight and let the other guy cut them out for him while he entertained himself. The runt was particularly good at it. There was more than one reason that he kept hunting Logan down.  
  
Sabretooth had finally reached the log cabin that was the current base of operations. He walked in, noting that all his companions had their usual reactions. Remy ignored him, Piotr turned away and blushed, and John created half a dozen flaming Creeds to follow after the original. Of course, the original wasn't involved in the flaming Congo line. Creed saw some new papers from Magneto laying on the table. He grabbed them and settled down to read as the now scarlet Russian left the room. Prude.  
  
After realizing that it was just reports on old operations and not instructions on tearing apart new targets, Creed threw the papers in disgust. He could read them later, if he had to. For now he was going to his room to get dressed before the Russian had a hernia.  
  
Creed enjoyed the ability his mutation gave him to do things other than just try to look his best. He didn't have to look acceptable to popular society. Anyone who tried to say anything bad about his looks would immediately find the error in their ways, and very few who ever met him were even tempted to try. His mutation meant that bites from fleas, ticks, and lice didn't bother him, so he didn't bother getting rid of them. They actually came in handy sometimes. They convinced his annoying teammates, especially Pyro, to keep their distance. If he was ever captured and didn't have the opportunity to 'play' with every soldier in the base, he knew that the little critters would get at least some of their blood in his stead. Fleas were good.  
  
Sabretooth never brushed his teeth because he wanted to give anyone he bit every disease he possibly could. He didn't smooth out his coat because the bits of dirt and moss in it helped act as camouflage. Everything he did had a practical reason behind it.  
  
Quite frankly, he was disgusted with his teammates cleaning habits. They never let nature wash them clean, instead depending on the metallic, recycled water from pipes. Even after that, they had to make themselves smell even worse with that disgusting stink-water half of them used. At least the Russian was smart enough to leave it alone. They never even took the time to clean their weapons properly. Pyro always had so much gunk on his flame-throwers that Sabretooth was ashamed to be seen in his presence.  
  
Sabretooth didn't have that problem. He took care to make sure that his bike told others exactly what to expect, and always took care not to wear anything that would make him be seen as anything but a warrior. He even extended his habits to the weapons of his own body. Sabretooth removed the nail file he'd hidden within his room and started sharpening his claws. When he was done, he'd put some oil on them to make them look nice, sleek, and deadly. He knew how to take care of the parts of his appearance that really mattered.  
  
_________________________________________________________  
  
Opinions? 


End file.
